Faking It
by hydrochloric
Summary: "Draco Malfoy Found Dead In Ancestral Home," rang out the news headline, but Harry doesn't believe it. No way would Malfoy commit suicide, or even sink so low as to die at all. So what's the truth? 6th year AU
1. Not Crazy

Okay, a few things to go over before we get started. One, I'm looking for a beta for this story, so if anyone's interested, drop me a line. Two, The rating is subject to change, but there won't be anything too intense, so don't worry. Also, I take forever to update purely because I'm a slow writer, but I will finish. I promise. And, last but not least, I do not own _Harry Potter _or anything about it, and the following story is not for profit. I hope you all like my new little tale, but even if you don't, please tell me what you think. Now, onward!

1 - Not Crazy

Harry Potter was not crazy. He really wasn't, and he would appreciate it if everyone would quit accusing their "Chosen One" of being bonkers. It was one or the other, in his opinion. Either they have a boy hero who they expect to save their asses, or they have a crazy kid with a scar on his head. And this time it was his friends doing the accusing!

"It's not a _feeling_, Ron, I _know_. Malfoy wouldn't kill himself," he insisted for the millionth time. Hermione and Ron, who were sat across from him at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, both shook their heads in exasperation, Ron going so far as to roll his eyes. Though Hermione was still mad at Ron, it appeared that the death of one of their classmates was enough for her to overcome her anger at the redhead enough to sit by him.

"Look, mate, I know you've had a bit of a Malfoy obsession lately—" Harry scoffed and opened his mouth to correct his best friend's word choice, but Ron ploughed on, ignoring him. "_Obsession, _but it's pretty clear he offed himself. Turns out he's the coward we always thought he was, so just forget about him."

"That's a bit insensitive," Hermione reprimanded, then seemed to remember she was ignoring Ron and turned sharply to Harry. "I know this news is sudden and…difficult, but it is probably better if you don't think too much about it, Harry. It's really very tragic that he apparently felt he had no other option but to take his own life, but what's done is done," Hermione said gently, pulling away the Daily Prophet that bore the article that had stunned the entire Hall that morning as soon as the owls had arrived. **Malfoy Heir Found Dead In Ancestral Home**, the headline read. It didn't matter that Hermione had taken the paper away. The article's words were repeating in his head, spinning around and inexplicably not adding up.

**Malfoy Heir Found Dead In Ancestral Home**

Draco Malfoy, 16, son of Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, was found dead in Malfoy Manor Saturday night, just days before he was to return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he was a sixth year student. The apparent cause of death, as determined by a close friend of the family who wishes to remain anonymous, was blood loss from slashes across each of his wrists. His door was locked from the inside, and there are wards to prevent apparition within the mansion, so the Aurors quickly declared it a suicide. Narcissa Malfoy, Draco Malfoy's mother and wife of known Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, demanded that investigations continue, though authorities doubt they will find any evidence to point to foul play.

This leaves only one question: what would cause this young man to take his life? The shame of having his Death Eater father arrested under mysterious circumstances in the Ministry last June? The pressure of being the heir to the Malfoy fortune? Perhaps we will never know, especially as his death is as surrounded by mystery as his father's arrest was. Mrs. Malfoy has allowed no one besides the anonymous family friend to inspect the body, as dictated by Malfoy family tradition, she claims. Also according to tradition, the funeral will be private and on the Malfoy Manor's grounds. Could she be hiding something under the convenient excuse of tradition, protecting her son even after his death? So many questions left unanswered, but rest assured that this reporter will keep on digging until answers are found.

Of course Rita Skeeter herself had penned the article. Who else could turn a teenager's suicide into a scandalous headliner? And maybe Harry was crazy for falling into her trap and not merely accepting the overwhelming evidence that Malfoy had committed suicide, but it just didn't feel right. If anything, it supported his "Malfoy is a Death Eater" theory, as his friends liked to call it. Maybe he wasn't doing whatever job he'd heard him bragging about at the beginning of the year and telling Snape about before the Christmas holidays, so they'd sent someone in to finish him off. But that didn't really add up either. If he was killed for not doing a job properly, they'd want to make an example of him, not hide away his murder and disguise it as a suicide. Maybe he really had killed himself when he couldn't do his job, in order to avoid the shame of failing and having a failure of a father. But he'd been so sickeningly proud at the beginning of the year. Being a Death Eater and attacking innocent mugglebornes was probably his life-long goal. He'd doubtless dreamed of it as a kid (the way most people dream of being a fireman or a Quiddich player) and been pruned for it by his father, Mr. Right-Hand-Man himself.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Harry turned away from his friends to look over at the Slytherin table behind him. That was the only table that seemed to be mourning Malfoy's death as a legitimate loss rather than a generic tragedy or, as most of the students were doing, not really caring at all beyond a slight curiosity. All of them, down to each little first year, seemed to be taking the loss quite personally, as though a beloved monarch had died. Well, Harry realized, in a way, theirs had. How many times had he seen Malfoy doted on by his house, or seen a younger student hurry to respond to a snapped command? Hadn't he even heard him called the Prince of Slytherin? Yes, he remembered, because Ron had been quick to amend that to "the Ponce of Slytherin." But Harry'd always assumed he ruled through fear and money, rather more like a spoiled dictator than a beloved king. Looking at the many sad faces lining the long table, he had to admit he might have been wrong.

A few Slytherins were even out of uniform, dressed in the deep black of mourning. At first Harry hadn't noticed because Hogwarts robes were mostly black anyway, but it seemed that four sixth years had traded theirs in for completely black robes and black garb beneath them as well. Pansy Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle, and another boy who'd been invited to Slughorn's lunch on the train, and had been in the compartment when Malfoy had bragged about "bigger things," but Harry couldn't remember his name… All of them had broken school code, though none of the teachers seemed ready to reprimand them. They clearly weren't shocked like the rest of the Hall, probably because they hadn't relied on the Prophet for news of their friend's death. They'd probably been notified right away, maybe even just hours after he'd been found. The article hadn't said who'd found his body, or where he'd been. Had it been a house elf, or his mother? Was he in some moderately public place, like a drawing room, or locked away in his bedroom, not to be found for hours?

Harry knew his friends were probably right that he shouldn't dwell on these morbid thoughts, yet something about it just… caught, like a loose thread on a sweater. He couldn't help but want to unravel it.

"Harry, are you listening to me?" Harry's head snapped back around to face Hermione, who looked vaguely annoyed as though she knew exactly what he'd been thinking. Knowing her, she probably did. "I was saying we should be getting to class. It's almost time for it to start."

"I have a free," he mumbled distractedly, eyes and thoughts still on the Slytherins as he automatically rose with his friends to leave the Great Hall.

"Well I've got to get to Runes. And you should spend this time revising for that review Snape said he'd be giving us today. We were supposed to be preparing for it over the holiday, and I know you didn't spend one minute of your holidays studying," Hermione chastised, leading them out into the Entrance Hall.

"Only Snape would give a test the first day back from the holidays," Ron complained as soon as Hermione had left for her class and they'd started up the stairs to Gryffindor tower.

"Yeah, and I recon it'll be difficult, too," Harry mused, letting his thoughts linger only a moment more on Malfoy before turning to Defense class and its bat like teacher.

"Wanker'll probably make us write an essay on vampires or something else we haven't studied yet." Harry nodded, mumbling the password to enter the common room.

"Well, let's get started."

…

There was indeed a test in their first class back from the holidays, as Snape announced before they'd even had a chance to pull their books out. Though Harry hardly cared about his least favorite teacher's health, he couldn't help but notice how pale and drawn he looked, as though he'd not gotten proper sleep in days. _Probably the loss of his favorite student_, Harry though, surprising himself when the words, even in his head, sounded more sympathetic than bitter. _Well_, he reasoned with himself, _it's sad. Malfoy may have been an arrogant git, but he was still just sixteen. People have a right to mourn. _

As soon as the though occurred to him, his eyes darted over to the sixth year Slytherins that shared this class with the Gryffindors, most notably the four black-clad mourners. They'd left Malfoy's usual seat in the middle of them empty, but didn't look at it. Instead, they were all perfectly focused on whatever Snape was saying; indeed, much more focused than they usually were in class, regardless of the fact that they liked the teacher. It was a little odd, Harry had to admit, without Malfoy's pale face and white blond hair between them, whispering something undoubtedly snide to Parkinson or snickering at something the other boy—Zabini, Harry remembered randomly—had said. A similar thought must have been passing through Parkinson's mind, because her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"Sir," she choked out. "May I please be excused?" Snape gazed steadily at her for a fraction of a second before he nodded once then turned back to his desk. With a flick of his wand, he distributed the tests, which ended up being so difficult that Harry couldn't spare a thought for Parkinson or her lost friend until much later.

The rest of the day passed similarly, with each teacher piling on the work in order to make up for the weeks they were on holiday. Only Slughorn seemed as relaxed as ever, though he did spare a moment for Malfoy before they began discussing Golpalott's Third Law.

"This is truly a tragedy!" he exclaimed in his most theatrical voice. "A tragedy. I don't believe a student of Hogwarts has felt the need to take their own life since Aders Riven in the sixteenth century, who was diagnosed with a fatal case of Spattergroit. A rare occurrence indeed, very rare."

"Too bad he can't get Malfoy's ghost to join the Slug Club," Harry mumbled to Ron, who snickered.

"Most notable thing Malfoy did was die," Ron replied, still chuckling a bit. That offhand sentence sobered Harry at once, though. The sad truth of it stuck with him, but though it rang true in many ways, it also served to pull the loose thread even more. Malfoy wouldn't just give up like that, because he knew people would say that about him, that he'd never done anything of note but die. It just didn't seem possible that "noble pureblood Malfoy" would take that lying down, bring it upon himself, in fact. Then again, Malfoy had easily set side his pride third year when he moaned and groaned about the small injury Buckbeak gave him. But that had served his ultimate goal of tormenting Hagrid by having the hippogriff sentenced to death. Dying didn't benefit him… unless things really were so bad here that death was preferable.

Harry shook himself, nearly laughing at the sheer absurdity of the idea. Malfoy, the spoilt boy who'd always had the best of everything and received numerous packages from his loving parents, feel desperate enough to take the plunge? No way, especially not when (and Harry was going to stand by this to the bitter end) he'd just been made a Death Eater and was head of the Malfoy household in his father's absence. Besides, hadn't he told Snape that he could do whatever task he'd been given on his own? If he was really in trouble, there was no way he'd sit back and quietly accept it. Malfoy didn't do a single thing quietly.

"Harry, mate, I can tell you're thinking about Malfoy again," Ron whispered, startling Harry.

"What? What makes you say that?" Harry asked, sure he'd misheard. If Ron could tell, then he must be acting really obvious about it.

"You're staring right at the place where he used to sit," Ron pointed out.

"Oh… I guess I was."

"Just drop it, Harry. You can't do anything about it, so just drop it."

"I know, but… don't you think it's weird? I mean, if he was getting desperate enough to—you know, then why wouldn't he accept help from Snape when he was offering it? It doesn't make any sense." Ron shook his head, glancing at Slughorn to make sure he was still occupied lecturing before answering.

"I dunno… maybe it was an accident or something."

"How?"

"A spell gone wrong? Like blood magic or something really Dark." He shrugged. "I don't know what kind of sick stuff a family like Malfoy's gets up to over holidays."

"I guess it's possible…"

"Would you two shut up?" Hermione snapped. "Some of us are trying to work here!" That effectively shut them up, Harry looking properly contrite while Ron… well, at least he didn't say anything nasty to her. That was progress, Harry thought morosely.

Trying to figure out what Slughorn was lecturing about halfway through proved to be more difficult than was worth it, however, so Harry let his thoughts turn to what Ron had said. Of the theories he'd had so far, the idea of it being an accident seemed the most likely. Maybe he was doing some Dark spell for his mission from Voldemort, and it had gone wrong. He had told Snape that "it" was taking longer than he expected… learning the spell, perhaps, so he got impatient and tried it, and—

"Alright, class. Now that you know the theory, let's see if you can put it into practice," Slughorn said, sweeping his arms to gesture to a table full of glass vials that they were clearly supposed to do _something_ with. Oh shit.

The rest of class was, of course, a disaster, but Harry's spirits lifted slightly when Hermione pulled a note written in familiar slanted writing out of her bag as they left.

"I meant to give you this this morning, but when the news arrived I completely forgot," she said, walking with him. Ron skulked behind, clearly not wanting to get snapped at again. "What does it say?"

"Dumbledore wants to meet tonight," Harry answered her, stowing the note away in his bag. "Another lesson."

"You're going to talk to him about Malfoy and what you heard before Christmas, aren't you?" she asked, seeming resigned to the answer she already knew he'd give.

"Yeah, of course. He should know about what Snape said, anyway. About helping Malfoy. Fat lot of good it did him in the end, though." As he said it, that chord of _wrongness_, that hole in the story, struck him stronger than ever, but he pushed it aside.

"Look, Harry, he probably already knows, and—"

"I am not having this discussion again," Harry said, stashing the note in his bag. "Come on. We're going to be late for Transfiguration, and McGonagall will have a cow." Hopefully Dumbledore, at least, would agree with him that there was something very strange about Malfoy's "suicide."


	2. Requiem

Sorry this chapter is a bit short. It was just a really good stopping point, and things are about to really get going, so I didn't want it to get unbalanced. By the way, I'm still looking for a beta, if anyone is interested. Thank you so much to anyone who reviewed; they inspire me so much to keep going. Please continue to do so! Also, happy birthday (one day late) to Draco Malfoy. He'd be 31, but is (regrettably) fictional :)

2 – Requiem

The familiarity of the Headmaster's office was like a soothing balm after the strangeness of Harry's first day back after the Christmas holidays. Everything from the odd password (sugared rice saffron) to the soft "Come in" he received upon knocking felt like it was welcoming him back.

"Hello sir," Harry said as soon as he'd sat down, though Dumbledore didn't look up from whatever it was he was writing. It appeared to be a letter beginning with the address, "Dear Madam Malfoy." Of course the headmaster of Malfoy's school would write to express his condolences, even if said headmaster was the leader of the light side and the family in question was notably dark. Dumbledore always was very polite.

"Ah—Harry. Please excuse me. I always find it is best to finish off a train of thought when writing, or else risk its derailment." Harry simply nodded, as he always did when he had no idea what to say to Dumbledore's oddly worded advice.

"That's alright, sir." He paused, unsure how to word what he wanted to say, then decided that the direct approach had gotten him this far, so why not? "Sir, about Draco Malfoy—"

"Ah, yes. Most unfortunate," Dumbledore sighed, and looked, just for a moment, quite as old as he probably was. "These are dark times indeed, when such a tragedy occurs. In the wizarding world, Harry, suicide is an exceedingly rare thing."

"I know, sir. Professor Slughorn told us today in class." Dumbledore nodded.

"Yes, I'm sure he did. It is truly a sign of dire circumstances when a wizard cannot think of a way out but death."

"Well, that's sort of why I brought it up. Sir, do you think… well, is it possible that Malfoy didn't take his life? Because sir, I heard him telling Snape—er, Professor Snape before the holiday…" And Harry told Dumbledore everything that he'd heard in the dusty corridor during Slughorn's party. Dumbledore listened patiently, but didn't seem at all surprised by anything he heard.

"Thank you for telling me, Harry. This information may prove useful to the Aurors working on Mr. Malfoy's case. Now however, we have much more pressing matters to discuss." Harry wanted to ask so many things, like why Dumbledore continued to trust Snape in spite of everything, and what he though about Malfoy's death and possible involvement in Death Eater activity, and what he was writing in that letter to Malfoy's mum, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one, and quickly became absorbed in Dumbledore's lesson.

* * *

><p>"So how did your lesson thing with Dumbledore go last night?" Ron asked the next day at breakfast. Hermione was sitting down the table a bit with Ginny and Neville, and Harry didn't miss the glances Ron kept sending her way.<p>

"Well, I told him that stuff I heard before break, but he didn't seem all that surprised."

"'Course not. He's Dumbledore, isn't he?" Harry shrugged.

"I guess. But then he showed me a memory of Voldemort when he was younger visiting this old lady and she showed him a cup that had belonged to Hufflepuff and a locket of Slytherin's. Apparently he was working for Borgin and Burk at the time as a sort-of stuff collector. But he killed the woman for her cup and locket." Ron's eyebrows shot up. "I know. I mean, he could have just robbed her, but he killed her instead."

"Evil from day one, right?" Harry nodded.

"But Dumbledore also gave me a task. He showed me this memory that was Slughorn's of him talking to young Voldemort, and told me the memory was incomplete."

"Incomplete? Like Slughorn forgot or something?"

"No, more like modified. Apparently Slughorn doesn't want the real thing out there, but I've got to get it from him. Dumbledore seems to think I could do it better than him, which is mad."

"I dunno," Ron shrugged. "Slughorn loves you. 'Chosen One' and all. Why don't you just ask him?"

"You think that would work?" Harry asked, hoping it would be that simple but thinking it probably wouldn't. If it were, why couldn't Dumbledore just do it? Just as he was about to express this concern to Ron, Dumbledore himself stood at the head table and opened his mouth to speak.

"Good Morning, everyone. As I am sure you have heard, a tragedy has struck the halls of Hogwarts. One of our own students, Draco Malfoy, has passed on from this life. Our grief is the deepest form of sorrow. There will be a memorial here in the Great Hall tonight after dinner should anyone wish to come celebrate the life of Draco."

"Wonder who'll go? Other than the Slytherins, I mean," Ron asked. Harry shrugged, already thinking of the Defense Against the Dark Arts essay he'd have to do during his afternoon free instead of that evening in order to make room for the memorial.

"Mate, you're not thinking of going, are you?"

"No, of course not. Look, I want to go tell Hermione about Slughorn's memory. See you in Herbology," Harry called back as he rose from his seat to follow Hermione out of the doors he'd just seen her walk through.

"Hey, Hermione!" She turned, her face already set in its mask of disapproval. "I haven't even done anything yet," Harry mumbled to himself as he caught up with her.

"Harry, are you thinking of going to that memorial, because if you're just going to be disrespectful—"

"No, Hermione, I'm not," he said, carefully ambiguous of what exactly he wasn't going to do. "I just wanted to tell you about my lesson with Dumbledore last night." As soon as her expression cleared, he did, telling her about the locket and cup the Voldemort stole and about his "homework."

"Hm… It's very odd that Dumbledore asked you to get the memory instead of getting it himself. There must be some reason why it has to be you."

"Ron reckons it's because Slughorn likes me and that I should just ask him for it."

"Oh, that's ridiculous," Hermione snapped. "If it was that easy, Dumbledore would just do it himself."

"Yeah. Maybe…" Harry mumbled, but without any other ideas to try, he decided to give it a go after class the next day.

"Now, _are _you going to Malfoy's memorial?"

"Well…" She gave him her sharpest glare, the one only women have that says 'Don't you dare lie to me, Harry James Potter.' Middle name and everything. "Yeah. Yeah, I was gonna go, but I'm just going to stand at the back and be really quiet, not bother anyone."

"Harry, you just being there will bother everyone. You didn't know him," Harry opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off. "And in fact, you openly hated him, so they'll all be really insulted that you came. How would you feel if Pansy Parkinson showed up to _my_ funeral?"

"I—" he paused, thinking first of how terrible Hermione dying would be, then, once he recovered a bit, the actual question. "Okay, I'd be upset. But, Hermione, something's up with this, and Snape is the key, I just know it. He _knows _something. He's got to. I'll go under the cloak."

"Well, I guess I can't stop you, but really, I mean… funeral crashing? That's pretty low, Harry. Why can't you just give up on this? What you need to be focusing on is getting that memory from Slughorn. If Dumbledore asked you to get it, it must be really important."

A stab of guilt raced through Harry, as Hermione had no doubt intended, but he ignored it, pacifying himself with the thought that he'd ask Slughorn about it after class the next day.

* * *

><p>Dinner that night was tense. The Great Hall had already been draped in black, much as it had been after Cedric Diggory's death in the fourth year. The Slytherins didn't seem to be speaking at all, causing an awkward hush across the other tables. No one seemed to know what the appropriate volume for conversation was. It was a bit like having a big banquet in a mausoleum. Harry himself was quiet, trying to figure out a reason not to go back up to the common room with Ron. Hermione kept shooting him little looks from where she was sitting down the table with Ginny and Luna, Ron kept shooting her looks when he thought she wasn't looking, and Harry was ignoring them both.<p>

"Hey, I think I forgot something in potions yesterday," Harry said as people began getting up and leaving the Hall. The dungeons were far enough away from Gryffindor tower that he could reasonably be gone for thirty minutes and just say he'd taken his time.

"Not the Prince's book?" asked Ron as they stood.

"No, just an essay I was working on. The, um, Charms one." Shit, they hadn't had Charms since before break... Luckily, Ron didn't seem to notice, his attention on Hermione where she was talking lightly to a boy Harry was fairly certain was in her Arithmancy class.

"Okay. See you later, mate."

As soon as he'd walked down the stairs towards the potions classroom he stopped, making sure no one was watching before pulling on the Invisibility Cloak and retracing his steps back to the Great Hall. Everyone had cleared out fairly quickly, and soon all that were left behind were Snape, a few Ravenclaws, and what appeared to be all of Slytherin house. With a flick of his wand, Snape caused three of the house tables to stand up along the back wall and the fourth to become many black-draped chairs lined up in neat rows facing the podium where Dumbledore usually gave his speeches and announcements.

"Please, sit," Snape commanded, though his voice sounded softer somehow, far more human than Harry'd ever heard it before. Once everyone had sat down, Harry carefully took a seat at the back away from everyone else, making sure he was completely covered by his cloak.

"We all know why we are here. It is useless to call this a tragedy or bemoan the loss of such a young life; others will and have done so. Rather, Draco meant his death as a message, and we would dishonor him to ignore it." The hush in the room was palpable, and everyone present seemed to know exactly what Snape was referring to and was wondering if he'd dare say it aloud. Harry, personally, was just confused.

"Draco Malfoy was tangled in a web, forced under water with no way to surface. Attracted by an enchanting outer layer, he failed to see the rot inside until it was far too late. Heed his warning, take it to heart, _and he will not have died at all_."

There was silence then, probably meant as a moment to reflect, but to Harry, it was like the pause after a teacher asks you a question when you're expected to answer. And he knew the answer, why something about Malfoy's death seemed so, so _wrong_, but it was just out of his reach. Something… something about the conversation he'd overheard between Malfoy and Snape before Christmas, which had been the last time he saw Malfoy alive… Something, something infuriatingly out of his grasp, something—

It came to him in a blinding flash, as though he'd always known but was just now allowed to remember. _"I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco—" _That was it, why Harry simply couldn't believe Malfoy had committed suicide; because when you commit suicide you _die_, and that counts as coming to harm, and Snape had sworn he'd protect him. His thoughts were a crazy jumble, but he knew one thing with so much certainty he nearly jumped up and shouted: Draco Malfoy was alive. He was alive because Snape was alive, and you can't break an Unbreakable Vow. If anything had happened to Malfoy, Snape would have had to have broken his Vow to protect him, and so would not be alive and standing before them giving a horribly unapologetic eulogy.

Unable to stay there, sitting at the memorial of a boy he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt was alive, Harry sprung to his feet, unnoticed beneath the Invisibility Cloak. He practically sprinted back to the common room, whipping off his cloak halfway there once he realized it didn't matter if he were invisible or not anymore.

"Hermione!" he called as soon as he'd tumbled through the portrait hole. She looked up from the essay she'd been writing, as did several other people, alarmed by his sudden and loud shout. "Stay right there!" He didn't even pause to see her confused expression as he barreled across the common room and up to his dormitory, where he found Ron shuffling about.

"Ron, come down to the common room! I've got something I want to tell you about," Harry declared, already turning to head back down again. As he knew he would, Ron followed.

"Why can't you just tell me in the dorm?" he asked, falling silent as he realized Harry was leading him directly towards where Hermione was sitting. "Oh no—"

"Because I wanted to tell you both at the same time," Harry answered as though he didn't notice his friend's trepidation. He hurried to continue, however, as Hermione began to rise. "No, wait, just listen to me. I know you guys are mad at each other, but could you please just pretend you aren't for a moment? Please? This is important." Both hesitantly looked at each other, Ron even attempting to smile weakly, before Hermione nodded.

"What is it, Harry?" she asked. Well, almost snapped, in Harry's opinion, but he didn't care.

"Okay, so I was at Malfoy's memorial," he ignored Ron's surprised outburst and Hermione's subsequent eye roll, "And Snape was giving the most cryptic eulogy ever, and then it hit me—it's not possible for Snape to be alive if Malfoy is dead, because of his Unbreakable Vow. Draco Malfoy is alive!"

Shocked silence met his words. He had expected this, but as the seconds drew on, he began to get impatient.

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"

"Harry," Hermione started, hesitantly. "I know this has all been very shocking and hard to believe, but, um…" Harry looked at her, nonplused as to what she was getting at, when Ron picked up.

"No, actually, he's got a point."

"Yes, but you don't know the exact wording of the Vow he took, or in fact, if he actually took it at all. There's simply not enough proof. Even if he did Vow to protect Malfoy, self-harm could have been excluded, or any other number of loopholes. Pledge magic is very complex." Harry couldn't believe it. First his Death Eater theory, and now this? Was Hermione just resolved never to back him up?

"Why are you so determined that I'm wrong? Do you just _want_ him to be dead?" Harry asked, voice raising an octave more than he should have let it, but he didn't care.

"Why do you _want _him to be alive?" Hermione shot back, her voice level and reasonable, unlike his. "I'm sorry to be contrary, Harry, but why do you even care? If he really was the Death Eater you were convinced he was, wouldn't it be good if he'd died?"

"That's true. One less to fight, right?" Ron added. Harry felt a slightly misplaced stab of annoyance that Ron would switch his position on the issue so quickly, but found he didn't actually have an answer for either of them. Why did he care so much? Shouldn't he be happy that his long-term enemy was finally out of his hair?

"No…" he muttered aloud, hardly realizing he'd done it. "No, it was never like that. I mean, I never wanted him dead." He knew he wasn't exactly making since, but he needed them to understand, he needed himself to understand. "We were just schoolyard enemies, not real enemies. And even if he was a Death Eater, well, I mean, he's really young. Our age, in fact. Maybe he didn't know what he was getting into."

"Since when have you given Malfoy the benefit of the doubt?" Ron asked, incredulous, but Hermione had a knowing, almost pitying look on her face.

"Harry, you can't save everyone."

A true flare of anger spiked in Harry then, compounded by the fact that no one ever seemed to believe any of his theories and the tiny, guilty, unacknowledged part of him that knew she was right.

"Why is everyone always saying that? I know, okay? I know I'm an idiot who just loves to play the hero. Voldemort knows that too," he added nastily, though the comment stung him just as much as it did Hermione. But this was totally different than what had happened last year at the Ministry. He hoped. "Look, I know he's alive. I just know. And I don't know about you two, but I want to know why he's got everyone convinced he isn't." And with that, ignoring the slightly shocked looks on his friend's faces and feeling and odd since of déjà vu to fifth year, he stormed up to his dorm, and to bed. Perhaps the Slytherins would be more interested in his theory, he thought, a half-formed plan already forming in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Thoughts?<p> 


	3. Let It Lie

3 – Let It Lie

By the time Harry had woken up, his anger long gone, the idea of confronting the Slytherins with his theory seemed much less realistic. For one, they would never believe him. For another, Hermione was right when she said they could take his very presence as a sign of disrespect and not take well to his approaching them. Even in mourning, or perhaps especially in mourning, Harry had to admit that the Slytherins were a bit threatening. Okay, scratch that—they were bloody terrifying.

But he had to tell them. He didn't even care if they believed him, which was good because they almost certainly wouldn't. He just needed someone to care, for God's sake, that there was a good chance Draco Malfoy was alive. Harry couldn't understand how Hermione could argue that because they didn't like Malfoy—hated him, in fact—his fake death wasn't of interest to them. If anything, they should be more than interested in it. Faked deaths were usually for one of very few reasons: the "deceased" wished to be left completely alone in order to escape or start fresh, or in order to plot free of suspicion. Considering that Malfoy was a Death Eater, Harry was convinced it had to be the latter, and if he had to talk to some Slytherins to find out what it was Malfoy was up to, so be it.

Ron was still asleep when Harry went off to the showers to wash before breakfast, but he was awake and sitting up in bed by the time Harry came back. Harry didn't say anything; Ron had that uncertain look on his face as he did whenever he was wrestling with saying something he knew he needed to, and Harry knew from long experience that it was better to just wait it out. Ron would speak when he was ready.

"Harry, about last night," Ron finally ventured just as Harry was bending to do up his trainers. "The whole Malfoy thing…" They were essentially alone in the dorm, everyone else either still sleeping or already at breakfast, so it was safe to openly talk about Malfoy.

"Well, I was thinking about it, and I reckon you might be right. I mean, it is true that you can't break an Unbreakable Vow. And, um… well, I think Hermione knows it too."

"How do you know?" asked Harry, careful to keep his tone gentle to avoid the sore spot of his and Hermione's prolonged disagreement. The tops of Ron's ears reddened, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"We, ah, talked a bit after you went up. I don't think she realized it was me she was talking to. Anyway, she just said something about you getting these ideas into your head that didn't belong there and how she figured you did have a point, but that if you were wrong it would be really hard for you to accept and she just didn't want you to be let down like that." Ron took in a big breath, having winded himself. "Then she just sort-of looked at me a bit, said she had to go, and went up to her room."

"Right…" Harry said, distracted with trying to untangle to spew of words Ron had just fired at him. "I didn't mean to snap at you two, but I do wish Hermione would stop worrying all the time. I can take care of myself." He felt a little guilty saying it, considering how many tight spots he'd never have gotten out of without his best friends' help, but enough was enough.

"At least she talks to you, you know, realizing it's you she's talking to," Ron mumbled, clearly to himself.

"Ron, why don't you just apologize to her?" It was beyond obvious, even to _Harry_, for heaven's sake, that neither Ron nor Hermione had any fight left in them at all, but both were too stubborn to admit it. Besides, there was also the unavoidable fact that Ron was still dating Lavender, and as long as he was, Harry couldn't see them making up.

"Oh, like that would solve it. Bloody girls, mate, I'm telling you…" Harry snorted a bit, reflecting that Ron did seem to be having quite a bit of trouble with the "fairer sex" this year. Though, admittedly, mostly through his own ineptitude…

"Well, I was thinking, you know, if Malfoy _is_ alive, that maybe I should talk to the Slytherins about it. His friends, I mean." Ron scrunched up his face, looking disgusted.

"I dunno, mate. I suppose that makes sense, but, I mean… Slytherins? Wouldn't they just hex you before you even opened your mouth anyway?"

"Maybe. But I think that they might be able to help me find him."

"Find him?" Ron looked positively alarmed now, as though Harry were suggesting they go looking for a rabid bear by asking the giant spiders if they'd seen it. "Mate, I see why it'd be a good idea to keep tabs on the slimy git in case he is plotting something, but finding him? Seems a bit far."

"How can I keep tabs on him if I don't know where he is? Think of all the damage he could do if everyone thinks he's dead! He could be plotting anything, and from what he told Snape before Christmas, he's close to finishing something big." Ron seemed to contemplate this disturbing thought for a moment before he nodded, looking resolved.

"Okay, mate. You're right. If the little ferret is planning something big enough to fake his death for, then we do need to find him. I'm in."

"Good. Thanks, Ron." They shared a manly pat on the back and a moment of solidarity before Harry bent down to fix his shoes. "Now hurry up. I don't want the eggs to be cold by the time we get down there."

* * *

><p>All through breakfast Harry stared at the still black-clad Slytherins, sure that those four where the ones he needed to talk to. But <em>how<em>? If only he could ask Hermione about it. Not only was she clever, she was also female, and very good at understanding other people's emotions. She would know exactly what to say. Unfortunately, she was already gone by the time Ron and he made it down to the Great Hall, and she had Arithmancy first period while they had a free. Besides, he wasn't sure exactly where they stood. Judging from what Ron had said, Hermione was just concerned about him and not angry, but he had been very rude to her the night before. He really wanted to apologize to her, but he wouldn't see her until break, and that was when he planned to approach the Slytherins.

Finally, after a restless free period during which Harry pretended to do his Herbology reading, break rolled around. Praying that the Slytherins went out of their common room to the courtyard during break like most people did, he rushed down the steps. Inspiration as to what he'd say to them had most definitely not struck, but he'd finally decided it didn't really matter. He'd just tell them all he knew, and hope they were interested enough to give him some information that may be useful. Worst case scenario, they'd just tell him to sod off and throw a few hexes at him. If that happened (and it was pretty likely it would), then he'd just figure out different means for finding out more about Malfoy. His friends seemed like the best source for information, unless they were in on it and wouldn't want to give anything away.

Pushing that intriguing thought out of his head for the time being, Harry pushed out into the courtyard. Being January, it was bitterly cold, and snow covered any bit of ground that wasn't covered by the eaves of the castle, yet people still came out here every break, all year round. They had magical means for keeping warm, and it was the only good time outside of classes to mingle with the other houses. After all, they ate at separate tables, slept in separate dorms, and hung out in separate common rooms. Why the Slytherins, who only ever spoke to Ravenclaws if they stepped outside the boundaries of their house, which was very rare, would also come out to the courtyard, Harry didn't know, but they'd always been there in the past.

And sure enough, they were there then, the very four he wanted to talk to miraculously huddled together in a corner, speaking quietly to each other. Harry approached cautiously, almost as one would approach a wild animal. As he neared, the hushed conversation stopped and four hostile faces looked up at him.

"Um… hi." _Really smooth… _Harry thought, inwardly cringing at his own social awkwardness.

"What do you want, Potter?" Parkinson asked, though her voice lacked a lot of its usual snap. Instead, she just sounded tired.

"I just, um, well, I had some thoughts about…"

"Spit it out, Potter. I don't have time to stand around waiting for some ineloquent Gryffindor to pull what few thoughts he has together. I could be waiting all day," sneered Zabini, doing a much better job of affecting his usual biting tone.

"Look, I wanted to talk to you about Malfoy," Harry finally managed, goaded by Zabini's cold taunt. The effect of Malfoy's name was instantaneous. Crabbe and Goyle both stiffened, and intensely guarded expressions replaced the open contempt of Parkinson and Zabini's sneers.

"Whatever you have to say, we don't want to hear it. Didn't you taunt him enough while he was alive? Or was that not enough for you, and you must disturb his peace after death, too?" Parkinson spat out, though the hand that Zabini discreetly grabbed was trembling.

"He was the one who taunted me! But I didn't come here to argue about that, and I didn't come here to insult him. I just wanted to talk." They looked doubtful, and Harry knew he'd need to reveal a bit more if he wanted to keep their attention.

"Didn't—didn't you think his death was a bit odd? I mean…" he cast about for something to say that would appeal to their Slytherin sensibilities. "A Malfoy wouldn't do something as, um, common as commit suicide, would they?" If muggle Christians considered it a sin, Harry's rushed brain had reasoned, then it may be against pureblood codes as well. Being pureblood was kind-of like a religion, right?

"And what would you know about what a Malfoy would or wouldn't do?" Damn, Harry hadn't thought ahead enough to know how to answer that question. At least he had Zabini's attention.

"Um… well, suicide isn't very elegant, and I always considered Malfoys to be quite, er, graceful with the way that they…"

"Oh, put him out of his misery, Blaise! I can't bear to listen, it's so pathetic," Parkinson cried.

"Fine," Zabini acquiesced, turning back to Harry with a bored yet resigned expression. "What do you know, Potter?"

"Who said I know anything?"

"Quit being petulant, Potter. It's obvious you do. Now spit it out."

"Fine. I think Draco Malfoy is alive." A small beat of silence followed. Eight eyes were fixed on Harry with an uncomfortable level of intensity.

"Why?" It was actually Goyle who broke the silence, his voice rough as gravel. It was him who Harry focused on as he answered.

"Because I overheard Snape telling him that he made an Unbreakable Vow to protect him, and Snape is fine, so Malfoy must be fine too."

"But there could easily be a loophole in the Vow depending on the wording, especially for something like self harm. Pledge magic can be very tricky." Harry decided against telling Zabini how much he sounded like Hermione. He probably wouldn't take well to that.

"I know, but I don't think so. I just feel that he's alive."

"Oh, well, Harry Potter _feels _something, so it must be true," Zabini sneered before his face softened somewhat. "Look, I don't know what you're playing at or why you'd even care if Draco was alive. I wish I could believe you. I _want _to believe you, but he's gone, and I'd appreciate it if you just left us alone to mourn in peace." Harry was about say something to try and convince Zabini to believe him when Parkinson suddenly spoke up, her voice quivering slightly.

"I don't." All four of them looked at her questioningly. "I don't want to believe you," she elaborated. "I really don't. I hope he's dead. Really I do, because he's found a way out. He's someplace away from all of this now, where no one can try to control him and there are no decisions to make. So don't drag him back, Potter. Just…just let it lie, and leave."

He stood rooted to the spot, confused and a bit stunned. "Leave!" she yelled at him, eyes over-bright. Zabini grabbed her hand again, meeting Harry's eye and shaking his head slightly, so Harry left, wondering if it was worth it.

* * *

><p>A week passed. A full week, to the day, and life moved on as usual. There was class and assignments to keep up with, so Harry was busy, but to say that he'd forgotten all about the "Malfoy thing" would be a lie. Occasionally, in the common room as he stared into the flames of the fire, Harry rolled Parkinson's words over and over in his mind, trying to figure them out. "Let it lie," she had said. "Let <em>it <em>lie." That was a bit of an odd choice in phrasing. Did she know something? Did she know Malfoy was alive, and she wanted Harry to let _him _lie? The way she made it sound, though, was as though Malfoy was a victim of something, a victim who'd barely escaped some evil fate. But that couldn't be true… could it?

Even if it was, there was nothing Harry could do about it. He had no leads, and no time to come up with any. The Slytherins were pointedly ignoring him and seemed to be moving on as well, having left behind the black of mourning a few days after Harry confronted them. He'd told Hermione what had happened after apologizing to her for losing his temper.

"No, it's my fault, Harry. I just worry, you know, when you get a… well, a bit obsessed over things," she'd said in whispered tones over their shared Girdy root in Herbology.

"It's not an obsession!" Harry exclaimed a bit too loudly, earning them a quick "Shush!" from Professor Sprout. "Sorry. But it's not. I just want to figure it out, you know, if he's alive or not and why he'd fake his death if he is." Hermione looked pensive for a moment.

"You know, he has always gotten to you in a way that no one else has." Harry just shrugged, unable to argue with the obvious truth of that statement but too proud to admit it.

"I dunno. Just seems like he's always up to something, even if I don't know what it is." Harry shrugged again, cutting a small nodule off of their root and collecting the puss that flowed from it. "Have you got any ideas on the subject? Because I'm all out."

"Well, I suppose you could ask Snape about it, but it's not as though he'd help you anyway. If anyone knows anything about it, though, it'd be him."

"This is why I need you around, Hermione. I'd never had thought of that myself," Harry said with an elated smile before sobering at once. "But you're right; he's not going to tell me anything." Hemione shrugged, waving her wand over the Girdy root to close up the cut Harry'd made.

"Well, you never know. One of the Slytherins might come around. But what you really need to be concentration on, Harry, is Slughorn's memory!"

"I _am, _Hermione, but he's not talking to me. He doesn't want to give it up."

"Well, you're not trying very hard. If all it took was a chat, Dumbledore would have just done it himself."

"I _know, _all right? I'm working on it, and I want to get it and all that, but I can focus on more than one thing at a time." As he said this, the knife he was using to cut off another nodule slipped, slitting the whole root open in an explosion of puss not quite big enough to obscure Hermione's pointed look.

"Shut up," Harry mumbled, spitting some puss out and being painfully reminded of the train ride to Hogwarts the year before.

Surprisingly (or perhaps unsurprisingly, considering who the speaker had been) Hermione was proven right about at least one thing a few days later. Harry was studying in the library, having just been left there by Hermione who wanted to go ask one of her professors about some trouble she was having on her essay. Usually Harry wouldn't have stuck around without her there to make him, but he really did have to finish his DADA essay, and he knew he'd get no work done if he went back to the common room. He was just finishing up his conclusion when he felt a light tapping on his shoulder.

"Hey," Blaise Zabini said as soon as he looked up. Zabini shifted as Harry just looked at him in shock for a moment.

"Um… hey." Zabini shifted again, looked around, then quickly sat opposite him, glancing around once more.

"Look, Potter, I didn't come here to exchange pleasantries." Harry didn't point out that he'd started it. "As much as I hate to admit it, I think you might be right about Draco. That he's alive, that is."

"Um, well, that's… what?" Harry stuttered, unable to understand why the boy in front of him was, well, in front of him.

"I think I believe you. Or maybe I just want to believe you. Pansy may think it's a weakness, but I _want_ to think that he is alive, and that he meant for us to figure it out."

"What made you change your mind?" Harry asked, finding his tongue at last. Zabini looked around yet again, seeming even more nervous now as he tucked a hand into his robes and pulled out a scrap of parchment.

"This. Gods, if he's alive he's going to make sure I'm not for showing you this." Curiosity peeked, Harry took the folded up parchment, opening it to see that it was a letter. The handwriting was neat, despite the fact that it was obviously written with much haste. It was dated December 30 of 1996, but the folds were still crisp.

"When did you get this?" Harry asked.

"Just a few days ago. A Malfoy family owl delivered it. But just read it," Blaise answered in a rush, pointing to the short letter.

"_Dear Blaise,"_ it read. _"Yes, I suppose we're past last names and posturing by now. The fact is, I'm about to kill myself. I think you know why, or at least part of it. See, I was given a task, and I can't do it, so either I kill myself or someone else does it for me. But I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did. I know what your plans are for after school—don't do it. Run away, defect, off yourself like me, I don't care. Anything is better. As much as I have always pretended otherwise, I do actually care about you, so listen to me, okay?_

"_Remember: 'under the knotted tree I lie until my one last song may die.' Don't you wish things were still that simple?_

"_With you still, _

_ Draco"_

When Harry looked up from reading the haunting missive, Zabini was looking at him expectantly, as though the letter had said "I'm alive, come and find me! Love, Draco."

"Um, Zabini, I hate to say it, but this letter really makes it seem as though he is dead. I mean, he seems pretty frantic and all," Harry said, glancing back over the curvy, slightly ornamental writing. Zabini raised his eyebrows.

"Are you kidding? Okay, the first paragraph does seem pretty legitimate, but the last bit? About the knotted tree? I mean, that's almost too obvious, especially since it's Draco." He said the last bit with a slightly wistful tone, and Harry thought he might have momentarily forgotten whom he was talking to.

"First off, I don't know 'Draco,' so I can't say if it's like him or not. Also, I don't get the line about the tree at all. Is that a reference to something?"

"You've got to be shitting me, Potter," he paused, as though waiting for Harry to say, "Just kidding!" When he didn't, he continued. "Wow, you really are dumb. Raised by muggles, right?" Said with a sneer, of course.

"Yeah, I was. Can we move past my dirty blood, please? What the hell does knotted tree mean?"

"Calm down, Potter. I was just surprised, that's all. The Tale of the Elven Fairee was one of Draco and my favorites when we were kids. We grew up together, you know. All the purebloods do. But in the story, the main fairee is a singer, which is a big deal for some reason. But anyway, Elvish Fairees are immortal, and this one retired to rest beneath the knotted tree, which was like a metaphor for death."

"Then he's saying he is dead, if it's a metaphor for death," Harry pointed out. Zabini sighed.

"This is so much harder than it should be. The fairee said he would rest, or be dead, until his last song died, then he would come back to sing again because all of his previous work would have been forgotten. You see, he got in trouble for singing songs of sadness before, which is why he retired. The theme is of renewal and rebirth."

"Hmm…" Harry thought on this for a while, reading over the note again. "What does he keep alluding to? Snape was saying this type of stuff too, at the memorial—"

"You were at the memorial?"

"Yeah, at the back. But both of them keep talking about 'making the same mistakes as him' and 'I think you know why.' Are they talking about—" Harry lowered his voice to a whisper, hoping he wasn't pushing too far or assuming to much. "About Malfoy being a Death Eater?"

The longest silence Harry had ever had to endure followed, during which Zabini fixed him with a stare so penetrating it could rival Dumbledore's x-ray vision. Harry tried not to squirm, but it eventually became too much for him, and he had to shift in his seat. This seemed to rouse Zabini, though Harry could still practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"Yes," he said slowly and deliberately. "Though how you knew…"

"I guessed it. I mean, it wasn't difficult. I'm sure he was just dying to follow in Daddy's footsteps." As soon as he said this, he realized how insensitive it was. A surprising amount of guilt flooded through him. After all, Zabini had trusted him enough to show him the letter and explain its significance, and this was how he treated him?

"Well, maybe he did _die _for it, bastard. Are you so thick that all you can see is how Draco acted when he was eleven years old? Why don't you grow up, Potter? Everyone else did a long time ago." With that, he stood, grabbed the letter, and strode away, leaving Harry to reflect that he seemed to have a talent for pissing people off lately.

* * *

><p>Later that night, curtains drawn around his four-poster bed, Harry pulled out his old standby, the Marauder's Map. Hermione had said that Snape was probably his best bet unless one of the Slytherins approached him, and… well, Snape was probably his best bet anyway now that he mucked up any friendliness between Zabini and himself. He'd decided against telling Hermione or Ron about that particular encounter, his shame still a bit too fresh. Couldn't he even be civil even to his only lead? Never mind his smarting conscience over saying such tactless things.<p>

"Well," he reasoned with himself, "Zabini snuck his own insults in there too. Slytherins and Gryffindors just can't be expected to get along. Not gonna happen."

On the map he quickly spotted Zabini in the Slytherin common room with Parkinson, Crabbe, and Goyle, undoubtedly telling them what a berk Harry was. He moved on, locating Snape in his office, as was to be expected at eleven at night. As he watched, though, the tiny dot labeled _Severus Snape _moved out of its office, out of the dungeons, and to… the kitchens? Well, that was odd, but professors must get hungry for midnight snacks too, right? As Harry watched, though, the dot waited in the kitchens for a bit, swarmed by dozens of dots called things like _Baggens _and _Poky_, before leaving and heading not in the direction of the dungeons, but out to the grounds. Out of the doors it went, across the lawn towards the greenhouses, then—

"Under the knotted tree," Harry breathed, hardly daring to hope as Snape disappeared down the secret passageway that led to the Shrieking Shack from the Womping Willow, and off the edge of the map.

* * *

><p>Yay! Almost to the fun part... I still don't have a beta, so, um, please? Also, the rating is going to go up on the next chapter for gore, I guess, so be prepared for that. Send me some love or hate, please!<p> 


	4. Of Course It's You

4 – Of Course It's You

Harry was perched on the edge of indecision as he looked at the spot on the Marauder's Map where Snape's dot had disappeared. On the one hand, there was a very good chance that following Snape would lead him directly to the "dead" Draco Malfoy. On the other hand, if he went now, he'd probably get caught by Snape, Invisibility Cloak or not. The passageway leading to the Shrieking Shack was just too small for two people to not realize the other was there. But there was no guarantee Malfoy was in the Shrieking Shack, if Snape was going to him at all. Snape could just as easily be using the passageway to get past the Hogwarts wards to Apparate potentially anywhere. Then it wouldn't matter if Harry followed him or not. For one, he couldn't Apparate, and even if he could, he wasn't even sure it was possible to follow someone once they'd Apparated.

Harry paused a moment more, then finally sat back in bed, making his decision. He'd wait until tomorrow night, then go. Who knew what would happen if Snape knew he'd discovered Malfoy? Besides, there was a good possibility that he wouldn't even be in the Shack, but rather someplace else far away from Hogwarts or even Scotland in general. Harry also decided in that moment that he wouldn't tell his friends about his outing until he came back. Hermione would only try to stop him, and Ron would want to go with him. It wasn't that he didn't want Ron to come, but this felt like something he needed to handle himself. Besides, if they did find Malfoy, who knew what might be said by either party? No, it was best that he go, alone, the next night, just to see.

* * *

><p>The common room was dark and still as he finally made his way across it at midnight, having been detained by both Hermione and Ron, separately of course. Hermione because she wanted to compare progress on Charms essays, which is Hermione code for bother him to start his by showing him she was already done with hers. Ron was actually perceptive enough to realize that Harry's foot tapping and fidgeting all day meant that he was probably planning on doing something that night. Harry didn't want to lie to Ron, but he also didn't think it would be a good idea for Ron to come. Instead, he'd convinced him that he had to go out on his own and that he'd tell him all about it when he got back, which took ages. Finally, Ron (somewhat grudgingly) accepted, and Harry was able to get away at last.<p>

Quickly and quietly, Harry slipped from the Portrait Hole, covered by the Invisibility Cloak. The Map showed that Snape was in his office tonight, Peeves was bouncing around the trophy room, and both Filch and Mrs. Noris were prowling a corridor on the third floor. They seemed to be making their was down to the Great Hall, probably to lock the doors. _Shit, _Harry thought, taking off at a full run and using every shortcut he could think of to beat them there. He reached the doors in record time, pulling them open just a crack and pushing himself through just as he heard Filch saying something to Mrs. Noris as he rounded a corner.

_How will I get back through? _and other such practical thoughts never entered his head as he stole away across the lawn, retracing Snape's path from the previous night. Once he reached the Womping Willow, he picked up a stick, muttering, "_Wingardium Leviosa" _and carefully guiding it to poke the knot on the tree (_The _knotted_ tree, _thought Harry triumphantly) that would still the branches.

Breath quickening with anticipation, Harry picked his way through the frozen branches and crawled into the passageway. He could have sworn the crouched run down the rabbit hole was the longest of his life, his legs cramping as he pushed forward. Had it really been this small the last time he'd been through it, back in third year? Had _he_ really been that small? Still, if Snape with all of his billowing robes could do it, Harry certainly could. Suddenly the temperature dropped, but Harry pushed on, assuming it was because he was getting deeper underground. As he reached the end, he saw yellowish firelight spilling out into the passage and stopped. Carefully he removed the cloak, stashing it in his robes as he pulled out his wand. With one last deep breath, he walked the last few steps and emerged into the Shrieking Shack.

"Severus, did you forget…" Draco Malfoy trailed off. He looked thin and perhaps a bit more ruffled than Harry remembered him, but there he was, most defiantly alive. Ha.

"Oh… Of _course _it's you, Potter." The familiar biting tone snapped Harry out of it, and he pointed his wand directly at Malfoy.

"Yeah, it's _me_. I knew you were alive! What are you planning?" Draco raised his hands in defeat, showing Harry he had no wand.

"Lay off it! Yeah, I'm alive. Brilliant deductive skills. Now will you point your wand someplace else? I don't even have mine, and knowing you, you'll hex me without even meaning to."

"I'd rather not. You didn't answer my question, Malfoy. What are you up to here?" Malfoy simply shrugged.

"Look around, Potter. You tell me."

As Harry took in the space, he had to admit it looked innocent enough. Rough pieces of cloth had been thrown over the windows and the flimsy, scratched up wooden walls still surrounded the small room, but all of the broken furniture and most of the dust was gone. Instead, there was a threadbare loveseat before an obviously reconstructed fireplace where a crackling fire was providing light to the space. There was a desk with a chair in one corner and several bookshelves stocked with books along the walls. In the center of the room stood a few cauldrons, one of which was bubbling and emitting the soft odor of sandalwood. It looked, in a word, domestic.

"What's that potion?" Harry snapped, grabbing at straws. Draco sighed.

"A standard healing potion base. Severus insisted I continue with my studies, _dead or not_," the last bit was said in an impressively good imitation of Snape's drawl. "I'm sure you'll learn it soon."

"So Snape's been helping you?"

"Obviously." There was a long moment of quiet as they stared each other down, though there was a surprisingly small amount of malice in Malfoy's eyes. "Look, Potter… I don't want to fight anymore. Just—just sit down or something and I'll explain everything to you, okay? Then maybe you can calm down a bit about it."

Harry's mind raced, first wondering why Malfoy was being so cooperative, then trying to see a loophole or trick in his words. Finally, with a sigh, he cautiously stepped farther into the room, skirting the cauldrons before sitting down on the sofa, his eyes never leaving Malfoy.

"Not so hard, was it Potter?" Malfoy drawled with a ghost of his trademark sneer as he sat on the floor, leaning against the hearth away from the fire. Harry huffed, letting his wand rest at his side but not leave his grip.

"So, you wanted to explain?" Malfoy nodded. "Why did you fake your death? Why is Snape helping you? How—"

"Not the way this works, Potter," Malfoy silenced him, raising an elegant hand. "Either you let me tell my story, or I say nothing at all."

"I don't really think you're in a position to bargain."

"What are you going to do? Raise the alarm? Please. Severus would stop you in a heartbeat. He obviously knows you're here."

"What do you mean?" Malfoy raised his eyebrows, shifting a bit to get more comfortable against the stone ledge.

"Didn't you feel it?" Harry shook his head, nonplused. "Well, Severus put up a barrier in the tunnel. He must have taken it down for you. Or else he forgot to put it back up when he left earlier, but that's very unlikely."

"How would he know I was coming tonight?" Harry asked. Malfoy shrugged.

"I don't know. How does he know anything? Maybe a Slytherin noticed you were looking for me and Severus decided it would be beneficial to let you find me. God knows for what reason, but…"

"Zabini!" Harry exclaimed. That would make sense…

"Blaise? He knew you were looking for me?" Harry nodded again.

"Yeah. I went and talked to your little group, you know—Parkinson, Zabini, and your two bodyguards. That was when I'd just realized you were probably alive. Zabini, er, Blaise was the only one to listen to me, and even he didn't until he got that letter from you. He figured out the last line, about the knotted tree. Not that you were literally under a tree, but that you were alive." Malfoy smiled just a bit, though it was still tinted with his smirk.

"I always knew Blaise would be useful," he muttered, seemingly to himself, before looking up at Harry. "So you figured it out, then? Where I was? I didn't expect Blaise to share the letter, but since he did…"

"Um, yeah," Harry lied, not wanting to tell his long-time enemy about the Marauder's Map, his father's secret with his closest friends.

"I wouldn't have thought you were well-versed in wizarding children's tales," Malfoy commented lightly, though he was pinning Harry under a penetrating stare that he was beginning to suspect was required for entering Slytherin House.

"Well, I am." Malfoy raised his eyebrows, but Harry's stubborn determination didn't waver, so finally he sighed and seemed to decide to drop it.

"So I guess now is the part where I impart my story to you." Harry settled back, ready to listen. "Well, magic makes faking your death really quite easy. By that point Severus already knew what I was planning and had decided to help me. I didn't want him involved at first, so I'd been quite rude to him, but he finally forced it out of me on Christmas. Used Legilimency on me while I was drunk, the wanker. Anyway, with his help all I had to do was slit my wrists then have him cast an Undetectable Stasis Charm on me once a believable amount of blood flowed out."

Harry was speechless. That didn't sound easy to him! That sounded awfully painful and risky, and it began to dawn on Harry that perhaps Malfoy really _had_ faked his death because he had no other choice.

"But… you could have really died, if Snape hadn't cast the charm at the right time, or if something went wrong." Malfoy shrugged again, face blank.

"I guess. But I trusted Severus to stop it in time. He also was the 'close family friend' that the Profit talked about, the one that announced me dead. Someone else could have noticed the trace of magic the Stasis charm left. Severus made a fine accomplice, especially since my mother made him swear an Unbreakable to protect me, though it was hardly necessary."

"Yeah, I know about the Vow. I heard you and him talking about it just before Christmas holidays." Malfoy nodded as though this were no surprise. In fact, he seemed remarkably calm about the whole thing, from Harry's appearance in his supposedly secret hideout to telling him in an almost bored tone that he'd slit his wrists.

"Yes, Severus was sworn to protect me, and he knew as well as I did that this was the best way. Well, the best way I would consider."

"What were your other options?" asked Harry, shifting where he sat to tuck on of his legs beneath him. Malfoy pierced him with his depthless grey stare, the one that said, "You really are stupid, aren't you?" _Hello, old friend_, Harry thought with a surprising trace of nostalgia.

"Aren't you supposed to be a Gryffindor, believing the best of everyone?" At Harry's continued blank stare, he huffed in exasperation. "I could have joined your side, Potter. Severus assured me many times, even before, that Dumbledore would've granted me and my family asylum if we'd asked." Harry's brow furrowed.

"Before what? Before you became a Death Eater?" he asked, spitting the last two words. Finally the smallest trace of surprise flashed across Malfoy's face before it was replaced by the most odd expression Harry'd ever seen on it: a smile, not a smirk or sneer, but so full of sorrow that it could hardly go by the same name as the usually joyful expression.

"So you figured that out, too? I sort-of intended you to, on the train. Back then I'd wanted to rub it in… I was so stupid then…We all were, just a few months ago. We were taken under by the Dark Lord, deluded by the power he offered. We thought we could control it, reap the benefits with no cost as long as we were good and did as he asked. But that was before I'd been there, seen awful things and learned how impossible it was to please him." A haunted look shadowed Malfoy's eyes, and he pushed the long sleeves of his button-down shirt up, exposing the underside of his left arm.

A gasp that Harry hardly noticed escaped his lips. There, marring the pale skin, was the Mark that knowing about did nothing to prepare Harry for. Stark black against grayish white, the skull sat with its jaw hanging open, a snake slithering out. More horrific than the Mark itself, however, were the scars that riddled it; a few erratic scratches at the top of the skull, pearly white and nearly gone; four or five clean cuts bisecting the whole tattoo that were also white; a thumbnail sized chunk out of the snake's head that was light pink; and worst of all, a sickle sized patch that looked like it had been peeled off with a knife from one edge of the skull, still a livid red. Almost as an afterthought, Harry glanced at the wrist to see a mostly healed gash.

"You—did you…" Harry thought he might be sick. "You did this to yourself?"

"Yes. The first are almost gone now. I did them with my fingernails early in the fall, after I'd been to my first real meeting. But it only got worse from there… I thought many times of actually doing it, without Severus there to cast Stasis. That was the real plan, before he interfered."

"But he took the Vow to protect you. He would have died. That's how I knew you were alive." Malfoy shook his head.

"There's a loophole for self-harm. I figured that out when I started—" he gestured sharply to the grotesque cuts on the Mark. "Trying to get rid of it. I could have done it, but then anything could have happened to my mother."

"Your mother?" Malfoy felt things such as familial affection? "Isn't she a Death Eater? She could take care of herself, right?"

"My mother is not a Death Eater!" Malfoy snapped with more fire than Harry was prepared for, having gotten used to Dejected Malfoy rather quickly. "She is a brave and clever woman who had the misfortune of having a very foolish husband and a son who was dumb enough to listen to him. She should not have to suffer for our choices."

"If she knew what you were doing was wrong, she could have stopped either of you—"

"You know nothing of pureblood politics or families," Malfoy snapped, almost with his old ferocity and arrogance. "She'd have been disowned according to pureblood law, and then killed according to the Dark Lord's."

Harry was silent for a moment, attempting to understand all he'd just been told. Malfoy was a Death Eater. He knew that for sure now. But he also knew that he hated it enough to try to carve the Mark right off his arm, and the only thing that had stopped him from killing himself was worry for his mother, who he seemed to care for deeply. As loath as he was to admit it, Harry had to face the possibility—no, probability that everything he knew about Draco Malfoy was wrong.

"You didn't heal the cuts with magic," he finally said because everything else was too big, pulling Malfoy from his contemplation of the fire. The blond glanced briefly at the cuts.

"I did, a little. Severus insisted. But I want the scars, because they remind me of what I almost did, what I was driven to, because of my choices. At the time I didn't think I had a choice, but now I know. You always do."

"And you call Snape Severus." Malfoy laughed a bit.

"Yeah. Well, I've known him all my life. He's my godfather." Harry sat up, incredulous.

"No wonder he always gave you preferential treatment!"

"He did not. I was just good in his subject, unlike you, Potter." The bite was there, but it wasn't poisonous; Malfoy was teasing him. Harry shook his head.

"I can't believe it. Why are you telling me all this?" he asked, unable to stop himself. There was a long pause.

"Well, you're Harry Potter, aren't you? Saving people is kind-of what you do." Harry's mouth fell open.

"You want me to… save you? You're kidding!" When Malfoy met Harry's eyes, a delicate blush was staining his cheeks.

"You think I want to be asking you for help? No. But what choice do I have? I'm done fighting, Potter, I told you that, and you're as good an ally as any. I can't afford pride anymore, not when my mother is out there and I'm the only one who can help her. I guess I just realized that I needed to grow up before someone lost their life for my childishness."

Harry hardly had time to register that the sun hadn't fallen out of the sky because a Malfoy had admitted they couldn't afford something before the rest of his words caught up with him. Zabini had said almost the same thing: it was time to grow up. Hell, there was a war that Harry was supposed to win for everyone very soon. It _was _time to grow up, to put the past behind him and let go of petty rivalries.

"Okay." Harry said, looking straight into Malfoy's grey eyes.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay, I'll help you. I won't tell anyone you're here, and if you want, I can talk to Dumbledore about your mother."

"Thank you," Malfoy said, relief taking away a tension he was holding in his shoulders that Harry hadn't even realized was there. "But I don't think you'll need to talk to Dumbledore about Mother. I'd rather he not be involved, if you don't mind." Harry nodded, though he didn't understand why Malfoy wouldn't want the most powerful wizard in the world protecting his mother.

"Okay. I won't tell him about you either, then."

"Thank you," Malfoy said again, rising from his place on the floor, which Harry took as his cue to get up as well. "Harry." Harry stared blankly at Malfoy for a moment before allowing the ghost of a polite smile curve his lips.

"Yeah, no problem. Er, Draco." Malfoy laughed a bit at Harry's stumbling pronunciation of his name.

"Goodnight, Potter."

"Goodnight, Malfoy." Harry hovered just a moment longer, then turned to make the trudge back up to the castle, dimly aware that everything had just changed.

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><p>Sorry that took so long. My internet has been really unreliable lately. Anyway, hope you liked how I do Draco. I know he's a bit OOC, but what do you think of the dialogue? I hope to have the next chapter out soon, but no promises... Thanks for reading.<p> 


	5. Are We Speaking?

This chapter is for **Haruna Shikaio**, who was the only one to review the last chapter and has been there from the beginning. You inspire me to keep going, thank you!

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><p>4 – Are We Speaking?<p>

Harry was torn. On the one hand, he really, _really _wanted to tell Ron and Hermione about Malfoy. On the other, he was trying to be mature and uphold promises and build bridges and all that, and Malfoy had asked him not to tell anyone. Well, he hadn't asked, specifically, but Harry had promised that he wouldn't. But back to the first hand, he had told Ron that he'd fill him in on where he'd gone once he got back. It had been nearly three in the morning by the time he'd made his way back to his bed, though, and Ron had already been asleep. So now, as he sat in Herbology, he had to decide: promise to and old friend, or promise to a new… whatever Malfoy was?

_A promise is a promise, mate_, supplied the little voice in his head that sounded, surprisingly, like Ron himself. He was sort-of expecting the voice that sounded like Hermione to help him with this one. Unfortunately, it didn't help much. They were both promises. _Then just keep both of them_, Voice-Ron reasoned.

_But how?_ Harry asked.

_I dunno. Ask Hermione. _Typical Ron, even in his head.

"So where were you last night?" Real-Ron asked in an undertone, startling Harry a bit.

"Er—" _Keep both promises. _"I was looking for something." Ron looked expectant.

"And?"

"Well, I found it. But I'm not aloud to talk about it," Harry said in a rush, wondering if that sounded as lame to Ron as it did to him. Instead of the incredulity or perhaps confusion he expected to see, however, a look of comprehension dawned on Ron's freckled face.

"Is it—" his voice dropped to a low whisper, "Dumbledore stuff?"

"Mm." Harry felt terrible, but the non-answer seemed to satisfy Ron.

"Alright, mate. You'll tell me about it when you can, right?"

"Of course!" Harry readily agreed. As soon as he could, he fully intended to tell Ron, Hermione, Zabini, and the rest. He just had a promise to keep, and he was determined to do so.

That evening at dinner, Harry could have sworn Snape was staring at him several times, but every time he turned to look, the Potions professor was engaged in conversation with another teacher or else concentrating on eating his turnip soup. Uncomfortably, Harry remembered what Malfoy had said about Snape knowing he was there and allowing it for some reason. But that couldn't be true, because Snape hated him. Then again, just the day before he would have said it was impossible for Malfoys to feel remorse.

While Malfoy hadn't specifically said he regretted what he'd done, he hardly needed to. The guilt and sorrow was etched into his every sigh and frown, etched permanently into his skin by his own hand. Harry suppressed a shiver at the thought of the scars in the Dark Mark, in particular the chunk that had been peeled away, as one peels an apple… Yes, there was guilt there. But what had struck Harry even more than the self-mutilation, what had truly convinced him that Malfoy was being honest with him last night, had been the air of calm dejection that had laced his every word and action. Gone was the arrogance and the haughty superiority of before. Sure, he'd insulted Harry a bit, and at times had his old snappishness, but there had been _humility_, the type that Harry had only before seen in the most life-beaten person he knew: Remus Lupin.

But now Harry was faced with an odd choice—whether or not to go back again to the Shrieking Shack. There was no real reason for him to go; he trusted that Malfoy wasn't going to spring at an unexpected moment, and he hadn't said he'd go back. Nor had Malfoy indicated that he wanted, needed, or even expected Harry to return. But the impulse to go back, to ask more questions and get more answers, was tugging at him, and tugging insistently.

Feeling the annoying prickle on the back of his neck, Harry spun around in his seat and finally, _finally _caught Snape at it. He met his eye for a fraction of a second, then, so minutely that Harry was almost certain he'd imagined it, nodded once, and returned to his soup. _Yes, _Harry found himself thinking. He'd go back.

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><p>It was around midnight again when Harry finally made it to the mouth of the tunnel. Uncertainly he hovered for a moment, wondering if there was a way to knock. Finally (and mostly because he was sick of standing hunched over, getting dirt in his hair) he pushed in, tapping his knuckles lightly on the floor.<p>

Malfoy looked up from where he was sitting on a stool before the same potion as last night, though now the sandalwood smell was stronger and tinted with something very familiar that Harry associated strongly with a fussing Madam Pomfery and Quidditch injuries.

"Potter?" He rose gracefully, sweeping his hair from his face with his left arm, and Harry noticed that his sleeves were rolled up.

"Er—hi." Harry was expecting a scathing remark, but Malfoy simply looked confused.

"What is it? Why are you back?" Harry took a tentative step forward.

"I just wanted to, um, talk." Malfoy quirked an eyebrow in a gesture so familiar that Harry nearly whipped out his wand.

"Severus let you through again." Harry shrugged, taking another step forward and casting around for anything to say that wouldn't be weird.

"That potion smells familiar." Okay, not super-normal, but not bad.

"I suppose it would, to you. It's a general immune support boost given after someone sustains an internal injury."

"Oh." Silence, and a bit of eye contact. Quickly look away. A cleared throat.

"You may as well sit down, if you're going to be staying," Malfoy finally said, sitting himself on the stool before his potion. Harry awkwardly scooted around the work area, careful not to touch anything, before perching gingerly on the sofa and twisting sideways to face the other boy. After a quickly cast _tempus_, Malfoy stooped and gently prodded under the cauldron, lowering the flames down to a flicker.

"So what exactly is it you want to talk about?" he asked as he rose from his stool and took the spot he'd had the night before, leaning against the hearth.

"I dunno… How long were you a Death Eater?" Harry asked the first thing that came to mind, cursing his lack of tact as Malfoy stiffened slightly, grey eyes guarded.

"Since summer," he answered mechanically, as though being interrogated. "After my father was imprisoned."

"That's sort-of what I thought. I mean, on the train and all…" Harry trailed off, realizing belatedly that it might not be best to remind Malfoy of that train ride, considering what happened directly after that. Damn that lack of tact. Malfoy merely shrugged, seeming to know what Harry was thinking.

"I don't regret breaking your nose," he said with the tiniest hint of a smirk.

"What?" Of course. How foolish to think that Malfoy had changed. Sure he was beaten down, but inside, he was still the same slimy, obnoxious, spoilt—

"Well, if you hadn't caught my father, I'd never have had to replace him. I mean, obviously it was his fault for being there at all, but… I went through a bit of a phase where I blamed everything that went wrong on you." Harry snorted, forgetting diplomacy.

"A phase? What, you mean like your entire life from ages eleven to sixteen?"

"Yes," he said with an entirely straight face. "And, to be fair, you did the same to me." Harry was ready to be insulted until he caught sight of the smallest upward curve of his lips.

"I guess that's true," Harry conceded, "But I had much more grounds." The almost-smile vanished.

"From your point of view." Harry raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Okay, I was a bit of a prat, but not at first. At first, I just wanted to be friends with you." Before he could stop himself, Harry let out a single bark of laughter. "Is it really so ridiculous that we might have been friends?"

_Yes, _Harry wants to say, and it's on the tip of his tongue, but that something vulnerable, that humility suddenly reappears somewhere in the grey eyes, and he stops himself. Thinks. Remembers his promise, and _a promise is a promise, mate. _

"Hi, I'm Harry Potter."

Malfoy, were he of _lesser breeding_, would have let his mouth drop open, Harry was certain of it, but he just smiled as charmingly as he could (at least he hoped it was charming) and held out his hand. The silence stretched so long that Harry's arm began to hurt, but Malfoy just kept looking at him, from his hand to his almost sincere smile, and back again. Just as Harry was about to put his hand down, feeling foolish, berating himself for trying something so stupid, a strong, thin hand grasped his.

"Draco Malfoy. It's a pleasure to meet you." Storm-grey eyes met vivid green, and Harry's smile turned genuine.

"Nice to meet you too. So, um… what do you like?"

"You mean besides dorky, clichéd symbolic gestures?" Harry's ears turned red, but he nodded all the same. Malfoy smiled a bit. "Quidditch. I play Seeker."

"Um, so do I!" Harry exclaimed with overdone surprise. "I also like Gobstones."

"What year are you? Gobstones?" Malfoy laughed.

"Well, what did you want me to say? Long walks on the beach?" At Malfoy's confused look, Harry explained, "You know, like on dating sites? Oh, I guess wizards don't have those. Well, you use the Internet to—you don't know what the Internet is?" Malfoy shook his head.

"I can't believe that. Do you know what a computer is?"

"Like a telly that you can interact with, right?"

"Um, kind-of. How do you know about television but not computers?" Malfoy shrugged.

"I don't only talk to purebloods, you know. There aren't enough of them." Harry decided to let that go for the moment.

"Okay, well, the Internet connects you with everybody who has it using a computer. And you can type up a page about yourself—the stuff you like, your hobbies, things like that—and put it on the Internet, and it helps you find a date. Well, lots of people say stuff like 'I like long walks on the beach and hot sex.' It's a bit of a joke in the muggle world." Noting Malfoy's fascinated expression, it occurred to Harry how very surreal it was that he was sitting in the Shrieking Shack explaining Internet dating to Draco Malfoy. It also occurred to him that the joke actually probably came from the dating shows of the '60's, but he didn't have the energy to explain that to Malfoy.

"Sounds very imprecise. Only muggles would be that desperate."

"Oh yeah?" Harry asked, "What do single wizards do?"

"We have matchmakers, of course." Malfoy said with a regal hand gesture that Harry guessed was supposed to indicate the superiority of matchmakers. "They are very effective."

"Well, muggles had those, too. About two hundred years ago." It didn't shock him nearly as much when Malfoy arched an eyebrow this time.

"Magical matchmakers employ methods muggles would know nothing about. Unique magical signatures are compared—that type of thing. It almost always works." Harry shrugged.

"I guess. But don't people just… I dunno, meet people sometimes?"

"Yes, Potter, people do still meet people. Very astute observation."

"I thought it was Harry now. Starting over, and all." Malfoy—or Draco, if he was to be Harry—rolled his eyes.

"Okay. Very astute, _Harry_."

"No need to be nasty about it," Harry mumbled, but Malfoy heard him.

"No, I suppose not," he replied, looking off at something beyond Harry's left shoulder. Acutely aware that he was rapidly losing any ground he'd gained (and choosing not to question why he cared if he lost ground with Malfoy), Harry cast around for anything to say.

"I didn't tell anyone about you, not even Ron or Hermione." Malfoy's eyes snapped to his, and there was another little beat of silence that Harry was beginning to get used to when talking to the Slytherin. He supposed the pause was used for thinking before speaking, not that he had much experience with doing so.

"Thank you," Malfoy finally said. _Must be the apocalypse, _Harry thought,_ a Malfoy being grateful. _

"You're welcome. But I'd like to be able to tell them. They won't tell anyone."

"Of course you _have _to tell the Golden Trio," Malfoy sneered. "Can't do anything alone, can you?"

"I came down here without them," Harry parried heatedly, "Twice. Would you just—why do you keep doing that?" The most brief look of surprise flitted across Malfoy's face before the unaffected expression was back in place. The unaffected _mask, _Harry was beginning to see.

"Doing what?"

"Going back and forth—" Harry moved his hands from side to side. "From one way to another. One minute you're calm and rational, and I almost forget you're insufferable, and then the next it's like nothing's changed."

"Nothing _has _changed! Well, everything's changed, but I'm the same. This is who I am, which you would have noticed if you didn't spent so much time looking for reasons to hate me."

"I didn't have to look! You said it yourself—you were a right git."

"Yeah, I was, but you saw what you wanted to see."

"And you didn't? Always thinking I was lapping up the attention, when really, I hate it. I hate how people look at my scar and expect me to save them just because my parents were killed." If Harry wasn't beyond worrying about it anymore, he'd be at least a bit concerned that he was opening up to Draco sodding Malfoy, of all people. Malfoy was looking stricken, lips slightly parted and eyes wide. All of the challenge and fight seemed to have gone out of him again, flowing away like quicksilver only to return again at a moment's notice.

"I…I thought my mother was dead once, after—well, last summer." Harry looked up into pained grey eyes, his stomach dropping. _Why is he telling me this? _"She was called into a sitting room—fucking blue parlor. They said they wanted to have a little chat with her, just her, so she sent me off. I—they put silencing charms on the door, but I took them down. They were telling her I had to take the Mark, and she said no, so they Crucioed her until she stopped screaming. I tried to get in, but the door was blocked. She wasn't moving when I finally got in, after they'd left, and I thought… well."

For once Malfoy wouldn't look in his eyes, and he found that without it, the nearly uncomfortable level of eye contact, he had no idea what the boy was feeling. It was all in his eyes, all of his true emotions, and Harry found himself wondering how he never noticed before. But he didn't need to be clever to guess how he was feeling then, head bowed and eyes on his hands. Harry couldn't imagine listening to Death Eaters torturing anyone, let alone his own mother, and being completely powerless to help. Suddenly it became painfully clear why Draco was here, why he had run away.

"Draco," he said, even thought the name felt odd on his tongue and the blond head didn't rise. "Where is your mother now?" That caused Malfoy to lift his head.

"In the Manor, of course."

"Um… alone?" There was a small intake of breath.

"Yes. I—Severus is watching over her as best he can, but yes, she is alone."

"Mal—er, Draco," Harry paused, unsure of how to continue, how to ask. "Do you, um, want me to help you get your mother out?" A pause, _the type used for thinking_, Harry reminded himself when the tiniest twinge of impatience snuck up his spine.

"Of course. That's what I said yesterday, isn't it?"

"Um… sure." No. But perhaps what he had said yesterday was "Will you help me save my mother" in Malfoy. Finally he looked up.

"I don't have any idea how I'm going to help her." The honesty was shocking, but something Harry could deal with, was familiar with. He nodded in what he hoped was a decisive way.

"Right. Does she know you're alive?" Plans were something he was good at, something else he was used to, even if he did just jump right in half the time. He received the shake of the head he was expecting. "Then obviously we need to tell her. Could you write a letter?" Malfoy—or Draco, Harry wasn't really sure anymore—rolled his eyes. Malfoy it is, then.

"Of course not, Potter. That could easily be intercepted, and, providing it weren't, Mother would never believe a letter that could easily be a fake. Honestly, if you're going to have ideas like that, I'd just as well do it on my own." Biting back a sigh, Harry forced himself to pause and think, for once. This is just how Malfoy is, he reminded himself. Just how he is. He can't help it.

"I'm just getting started, all right? I'm still thinking." Just then, Harry noticed something he probably should have immediately—Malfoy was wearing his uniform trousers and white button up shirt. He'd rid himself of the heavy outer robes, as most students did when they were in their common rooms, but his clothes were defiantly uniform. "Why are you wearing your uniform?"

Malfoy briefly glanced down at himself. "Well, I couldn't exactly go up to my rooms and pack a bag, could I? How would it look if the clothes of a dead person went missing? Severus brought me what I'd left at Hogwarts over the Christmas holiday, which happened to be my uniforms."

"Oh." Unfortunately, that random fact really couldn't be of use in convincing Malfoy's mother that he was still alive, which was the topic at hand. "Well, I'm out of ideas. Short of… we couldn't just tell her, could we? I mean, get Snape to, or something?" As Harry stifled a yawn, Malfoy shook his head.

"I don't want to further implicate Severus. He's already done so much, and for him to say aloud what he has done, that makes it a memory of my mother's, which is far harder to control than a memory of his own. Besides that, saying something makes it fact as far as a lot of old magic is concerned. He's already done far too much."

"Yeah, but…" _In for a knut, in for a galleon, right? _"I could do it. I mean, it's not like Voldemort could hate me more, right?" Malfoy simply stared at him, gobsmacked, and Harry's respect for him jumped. He had figured Malfoy to be one of those wizards who flinched at Voldemort's name, especially considering what he'd been through, but he didn't even bat an eye. Though, he did still call him 'the Dark Lord.'

"Have you gone off your rocker, Potter? What do you propose you do, simply waltz into the Manor and say to my mother, 'Hello, Narcissa. Did you know your son's alive?' You'd be killed in an instant!"

"I don't know. Would I?" Harry sighed, realizing how late it was and how very tired he felt. Also, a small part of him was shocked that Malfoy cared if he was killed. Probably only because Harry was useful to him, but still. Unable to hide another yawn, he let his jaw crack as he drew in an enormous breath.

"Cover your mouth when you yawn, Potter. Merlin, how plebian could you be?" he said, which Harry expected by now, but there was something in his tone that made Harry look up, blinking to clear his vision. Malfoy seemed to know he was looking at him, and was a shuttered as ever, but…

"You should go before you fall asleep on my den floor. We'll talk about this tomorrow," Malfoy declared, standing up in the way that was clearly a dismissal, just as he had done the night before. Harry thought his use of the word 'den' was quite generous, but didn't comment, instead standing and stretching a kink out of his back.

"Alright," he agreed, walking towards the door and contemplating how he'd said tomorrow with such certainty. Well, who was he kidding? They both knew he'd be back. He was almost to the hole when Malfoy spoke again.

"Oh, and Potter?" Harry turned to meet grey eyes. "You can tell the Weasel and muggleborn, if you like."

With a shaky nod and the odd desire to thank him, Harry left, too shocked to correct Malfoy's names for his friends or realize that he'd said "muggleborn."


	6. Godfathers

Hello! Sorry about the wait. It's going to be another long one after this, as well, because I'll be moving soon. Hope you like the chapter, though! Oh, and by the by, I'm not really a fan of Dumbledore bashing or really bashing of any variety, but the last bit of this chapter is written from Snapes pov, so I wrote what i thought he'd be feeling. Anyway, enjoy the chapter, and don't worry, the plot is about to start really picking up.

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><p>6 – Godfathers<p>

Harry regretted waking up as soon as he'd done it the next morning. After two late nights on top of his full days, he was completely exhausted. He knew he'd need to find other times to visit Malfoy, but he had no idea when. Also, he needed to add 'why I'm making time in my day to visit Malfoy' to his list of things he didn't think about. Hazily, he remembered that Malfoy'd given him permission to tell Ron and Hermione about him, and he should probably tell Zabini too, once he asked Malfoy for permission. There was also five more inches he needed to write on his Transfiguration essay and an entire Charms essay due the next day, not to mention Slughorn's memory, which he had no idea how to get.

Groaning, he rolled out of bed and pulled something (hopefully a clean uniform) on. _It's Thursday, _he reminded himself. _Just a few days until the weekend. _

Pushing his glasses up at an odd angle to rub at his gummy eyes, he made his way down to breakfast alone. The dorm was empty when he'd woken up, so he figured Ron had already gone. Halfway to the Great Hall, he spotted the back of a familiar head—Blaise Zabini's. Quickening his pace, he caught up with him as he was going down the stairs that lead to the Entrance Hall.

"Hey." Zabini started and turned to face him, scowling.

"What do you—Good Lord, Potter. You look like death charmed warm."

"Thanks for that. Look, I've got something to tell you." Zabini's eyebrows rose. _Malfoy does it better_, Harry thought, before shaking himself. _Where the hell did that come from? _

"What could you possibly have to tell me? How evil I am because I'm a Slytherin? How like my mummy I am?"

"Okay, I deserved that. But it's important. I wouldn't be bothering you if it wasn't." Zabini sneered.

"Of course you wouldn't possibly have the time for a chat, being the 'Chosen One' and all." Harry huffed impatiently, willing himself not to loose his temper.

"That's not how I meant it and you know it. I'm sorry for being insensitive, all right? I'm an idiot, happy?" Zabini opened his mouth, probably to say something rude, but Harry cut across him. "Sorry, I just—I'm really tired. Because of the thing, the thing I have to tell you… er, not right now." Harry knew he wasn't making a lot of sense, but he'd just remembered that Malfoy hadn't given him permission to tell Zabini, just Ron and Hermione. Shit. Zabini, of course, was looking at him like he'd lost his marbles.

"Alright, then. Why don't we meet in the courtyard tomorrow after class? We can talk then."

"Um… Sure. Fine. We'll meet in the courtyard." That would be fine. He could ask Malfoy about telling him this evening, and if he said no, it gave him a bit of time to think up something else to tell him.

The opportunity to tell Ron didn't arise until their second free of the day. Harry had napped through the first one, and was regretting it as he attempted to finish those five inches of Transfiguration that were due next period. Ron was fairing no better, having been cornered by Lavender during his first free. It was clear that the novelty of having someone who wanted to snog him was wearing off, not that Ron would admit it. For once, Harry felt insightful, though even Grawp would be able to tell that the relationship was doomed.

Harry and Ron both finished their Transfiguration at top speed, not above the old trick of using huge handwriting to get the job done. With a dramatic sigh, Ron flopped back onto the sofa he was sitting on. Harry looked around the common room, surprised to find it was completely abandoned. It was almost as though the fates were presenting him with the perfect opportunity to tell Ron about Malfoy.

"Merlin, I'm knackered," Ron yawned, stretching his long arms over his head. "But obviously not as much as you are. You look awful." Harry rolled his eyes, thinking of what Zabini had said that morning.

"I've heard."

"Is it because of…" Ron looked around, making sure they were alone, "whatever Dumbledore has you doing?" Guilt coursed through Harry at his little not-lie that Ron had so whole-heartedly believed. Ron was his best friend, and he trusted Harry to keep nothing from him.

"Look, Ron, about that…" he started, but randomly, unbidden, an image of Malfoy's expressive eyes quickly becoming shuttered and emotionless stopped him.

"Yeah? Can you tell me what it is now?" Harry shook himself. He was being ridiculous. Malfoy had given him permission, had told him to tell his friends, and Ron was his very closest one. Yet…

"It's not something Dumbledore has me doing. It's just… something I'm doing on my own. Because I want to." As he said it, he realized it was true. Though he'd only been to see Malfoy twice, already his visits and plans to help rescue Mrs. Malfoy felt less like an obligation and more like… well, simply right.

"Okay… what is it?" Ron asked, looking puzzled.

"I—well. It's to do with Malfoy."

"Harry, you're keeping yourself up all night for that git? I don't believe it! And you had me thinking it was some important mission to defeat You-Know-Who."

"I'm sorry, but you know… I just have to know, you know?" Ron was shaking his head, no doubt thinking he was off his rocker, but looked ruefully accepting in spite of it. Harry had no idea why he didn't want to tell Ron about Malfoy just yet, but it just felt like he shouldn't, and going with his gut had usually served him alright in the past.

"I'll never understand your thing with him, Harry, but I know I can't stop you. Just try to stay awake long enough for McGonigal's class, all right?" Harry nodded, relief pushing aside his guilt over not being completely honest with his best friend.

"Yeah," he said, reflecting that he really should find a different time to go to the Shrieking Shack.

_Later, _he thought as he made his way through the tunnel that night, _I'll figure out a better time later. Just like I'll figure out how to get that memory later, and tell everyone about Malfoy, and actually do all of my homework… _There was really no helping it. _Tomorrow is Friday, _he reminded himself helpfully.

"Potter," Malfoy greeted him as soon as he stepped into the Shack. Nearly all of his original surprise at seeing Harry was gone after only a few visits. Fleetingly Harry wondered if this was due more to Malfoy's adaptability or to his own predictability. _Not that predictability is a bad thing, _his sleepy mind quipped shortly before he told it to shut up.

"Are you even listening? Merlin, your head seems to live in the clouds," Malfoy was saying.

"What was that?" Harry asked, which earned him a carefully arched eyebrow.

"I was saying that you tune out uncommonly often, Potter, as evidenced by the fact that you're drifting off right now."

"I am not!" Harry protested, though his cheeks tinted slightly. Alright, so maybe his brain was about to go on a tangent regarding the smell of sandalwood that seemed to have become permanent in the small space. Malfoy's small scoff brought him back to earth yet again.

"Well, whenever you deem me of interest enough to be gifted with your attention, I've found something that you might want to see."

"Hm?" Harry asked, looking around the room. Same crackling fire, same bubbling potions—it occurred to him that Malfoy stayed up very late.

"Not down here. Upstairs, in the bedroom. Severus cleaned this space out for me, but pretty much left me to my own devices as far as the horribly dusty upstairs goes. I was cleaning out the closet, which seems to be the only space not utterly destroyed. Honestly, I'd like to know what or who smashed this place up, but Sev assures me whatever it was is long gone. There was only one box in the closet, on the top shelf. There were some pictures, and I think they have your father in them, as well as the werewolf Lupin and my cousin Black—" he may have continued, but Harry'd stopped listening as soon as he'd heard "pictures." _They must have been Remus' _Harry thought with a surge of excitement. Pictures of his dad in school with his best friends, ones kept by Remus where his werewolf form couldn't harm them. Seeming to notice he'd completely lost Harry, Malfoy handed him a small stack of old, dusty photos.

The first showed all four of the Marauders gathered in the Gryffindor common room, Sirius and James drinking butter beer and laughing while Peter tentatively joined in and Remus pretended to be studying, though his smile betrayed him. Next was a picture Remus must've taken, because he wasn't in it. Just James and Peter were laughing unreservedly at a scowling Sirius, who was wearing ridiculous knee-high tasseled leather boots that Harry would bet anything he'd been quite proud of. The next few were of all or most of the Marauders in various places iconic to Hogwarts: down by the lake, in Hogsmede, in the Great Hall eating a meal.

Then the focus seemed to shift exclusively to Remus and Sirius together. At first they were innocent; a picture of Sirius laughing and pointing at the Shrieking Shack as viewed from Hogsmead, miming being a ghost while Remus smiled sheepishly, and one of Sirius tackling an unsuspecting Remus from behind. Then one of them sitting by the lake, alone this time, Sirius' head leaned against Remus' legs, and—Harry nearly dropped the pictures. Clutched in his hand where the remaining two photographs. On top, Remus was curled in one of the comfy common room chairs, attempting to read as Sirius, squished into the same chair, leaned in to kiss him before being batted away. But Remus was smiling, lovingly, adoringly, as Sirius scowled and pulled his chair-mate's sandy hair, and he gave in, putting his book down and granting Sirius his kiss. Hands shaking, Harry looked down at the last photo, then almost wished he hadn't.

In it, his godfather, the man he'd thought of as a true father for a few short years, lay in bed bare-chested, sheet pooled around his waist, looking at whoever was holding the camera with such unguarded longing, desire, and _love_ that Harry blushed and quickly shoved it to the bottom of the pile.

"Who would have thought that out old defense teacher and Sirius Black were poofs, right?" Malfoy asked, shattering Harry's already cracked nerves.

"I—I have to go," he stuttered, taking off for the door, pictures still clutched in his slightly sweaty hand. Why did no one ever tell him? Not Sirius, whom he'd shared everything with, and not Remus, whom he'd thought had always been so honest with him. Hadn't it been Remus who finally told him the truth about his father, after he'd seen Snape's memory last year?

"Potter, what—"

"Don't worry about it. I'll be back tomorrow," Harry assured a very confused Malfoy as he slipped through the door and into the passageway. He ran all the way up to the again unlocked castle doors, which Harry was fairly certain Snape had been leaving open for him. Gasping for breath, he stumbled into the common room, ignoring the few students still awake as he knelt before the fire, pausing only to cast _Mufliato _and grab a handful of Floo Powder from the communal jar on the mantle.

"Grimauld Place!" he called into the green flames, realizing a beat later that Number 12 was no longer headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix and therefore it was highly unlikely that Remus would be there. But last he'd heard, Remus was usually on missions for Dumbledore amongst the werewolves, so he had no other way of contacting him. Besides, he'd seen him at Christmas not too long ago, and he'd said he wasn't going back out until February.

"Harry?" And there he was, looking disheveled, as though he'd just woken up, but happy to see him. "What is it?"

"I—um. Well, I've been to the Shrieking Shack, and I found some, um, well, they're pictures," Harry mumbled, suddenly realizing that there was no way to explain how he'd discovered the pictures without either giving Malfoy away or making it sound like he was snooping.

"What were you doing in the Shrieking Shack? Isn't that out of bounds?"

"I was, um, just missing Sirius, and I feel very connected to him there. That's where I met him," Harry said, which was technically the truth, and besides that it caused Remus' disapproving frown to soften at once.

"Ah. I understand completely. But you said you'd found some pictures?" Harry nodded, inexplicably blushing once again as he thought of the last picture in the stack. Carefully, he passed the pictures through the flames, half-fearful they would catch on fire despite his five year's experience with the Floo.

As Remus looked through the first few, a smile touched his lips, turning into a full grin that lit up his prematurely lined face when he saw the one of Sirius' tasseled boots.

"I remember those," he laughed, looking up at Harry. "It was all I could do to stop laughing long enough to take the picture. Sirius was so angry with James and I—he thought he was so fashionable."

As he looked through the rest, however, his smile became more and more wistful, then sad, then barely-there as his eyes became over-bright. He looked at the last two for a long, silent moment, seemingly back there, a young and in love Hogwarts student again. Suddenly he looked up, remembering who'd given him the pictures. Harry met his gaze, a thousand questions bubbling in his eyes.

"We meant to tell you," Remus began, "A million times we meant to, but the timing never was right, and then, when he—when it happened, I just couldn't. Not without him."

"So you two were, er… together? Even after school?"

"Yes. We became a couple in our sixth year at Hogwarts and were together until your parent's death. I'm ashamed to admit I thought he was guilty of killing Peter, though I never believed he could have sold out Lilly and James. He loved them too much. After he escaped, he came to stay with me for a while before going on the run, and we reconciled. Harry, you have to believe that he wanted to tell you, but it was difficult for him. He'd faced so much rejection. His family kicked him out of the house for it. That's why he went to live with James when he was sixteen, not because he ran away. Though he probably would have anyway, regardless."

"But I would never reject him! I'm just surprised, that's all. He was the only family I had," Harry protested, hurt that Sirius wouldn't trust him with something that was so huge a part of his life.

"I know, Harry. And you were the only family he had, which was why he was so cautious. He loved you, Harry. Never doubt that."

After a beat, Harry nodded. Of course he knew that Sirius loved him. Just because he didn't tell him that he and Remus were together didn't mean that he loved him any less. A sudden thought occurred to him.

"Why are you at Grimauld Place?" he asked. Remus smiled his sad little smile and shrugged.

"I was just missing Sirius, I suppose. We lived here together for a few good years. Besides, it can't be that odd that I'm here, considering the fact that you looked here for me."

"That's true, I guess." A beat of silence passed during which Remus looked down at the pictures again, then looked up.

"Would you mind if I kept a few of these? I don't have many pictures from that time left, never having had a steady home. I kept these there, in the Shack, because after the transformations when Sirius and James couldn't come, I could at least see them in picture form, which helped. My werewolf form can't open doors, you see, so they were safe in the closet."

"Of course. They're yours anyway." Remus nodded, then handed Harry back the one of all the Marauders in the common room.

"I think this one is yours," he said with a smile. Harry nodded again, and they said their goodbyes shortly after. As Harry went to bed that night, far earlier than he had in the past few days, he couldn't help but hope that someday he'd love someone so much as his godfather had clearly loved Remus, and be loved as much as Remus loved him back.

* * *

><p>Down at the Shrieking Shack, Severus Snape was looking down at the closest thing he had to a son as he lay curled on the couch, sound asleep. Why had he let the Potter boy through? Not the first time, mind. No, Potter had managed to slip through his Dark Mark barrier as though…well, as though he were a Death Eater. How, Severus had no idea. Perhaps he could ask Albus? But no, Albus didn't know about Draco, and Severus intended on keeping it that way. Especially since…well, a lot had become clear about Albus' intentions in recent months. He could not save Potter now, but he could save Draco. He would not let the baby he'd held while the womb still clung to him become a pawn in this war. Not when he'd already lost so much to the "greater good."<p>

"Godfather?" a groggy voice shook him from his thoughts. Calmly he looked into cloudy grey eyes that were completely unguarded, just for him. _Grey eyes, yes, _he thought, _but still beautiful. _

"Draco," he greeted. "Was Potter here earlier?" Draco sat up, looking more awake.

"You know he was. You let him through." Severus decided not to correct him for the moment. The statement was half true anyway. The castle doors would never be open if he didn't unlock them for the boy each night.

"You're in over your head, Draco. It is foolish for you to trust him."

"How do you know?" Draco snapped, looking as petulant as he had back when he was a child and Severus denied him some trinket. But he was no child now, and sacrifices had to be made.

"I have not managed to live as long as I have by trusting people who were once my enemies, Draco. You are in a very dangerous position, or have you forgotten?" Draco looked away, preferring to focus on his potions rather than on his godfather. He never would look at him when he knew he was wrong.

"No, I've not forgotten, but I know I can trust Harry."

"Harry, is it? Draco, this cannot continue. You are putting yourself in danger for something that can never occur." That got his godson's attention, though he let none of the fire in his eyes bleed into his next sentence. _Good, _Severus praised him, though only in his mind.

"He has promised to help me get Mother from the manor, and he is just reckless enough for it to work. That's too valuable for me to throw away." _Very good, but not enough to fool me. _Draco would no sooner simply use Harry Potter than he would his own mother, but he needn't know that Severus knew as much. It was better to let him think that it was his little secret for now, lest he do something reckless to prove himself.

"Ah, so you would risk the 'Chosen One' for your own gain. How very Slytherin," Severus sneered, earning a pout from Draco, who could only keep up his mask in front of Severus for so long.

"Well, he offered. I'm not going to pass up help from the Boy Who Lived, am I?"

"Hm. I've come to drop off the ingredients you'll need for tomorrow's potions lesson. Page 493, I think. Continued applications of the Basic Healing Base. I expect you'll have no difficulty with it." Draco nodded, rising to put away the bundle of ingredients his godfather'd handed to him. Severus had already turned to leave before a question stopped him.

"Severus? How do you know I'm in over my head?" Perhaps it was the innocent curiosity of the question, or maybe simply the paternal instinct he seemed to posses deep down, but something made him answer the question as honestly as he knew how.

"The boy's eyes are very green, aren't they?" And with that, he left in a swirl of billowing cloaks, praying to every god he didn't believe in that his fate not be shared with his godson.


End file.
